


Covalent Bond

by umbrellasandskulls



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, First Time, Fluff, JohnlockChallenges Exchange, M/M, Smoking, mentions of drug use, victor trevor is a douchebag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-14
Updated: 2014-02-14
Packaged: 2018-01-12 08:32:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1184132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/umbrellasandskulls/pseuds/umbrellasandskulls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes doesn't do roommates. When a medical student invades his space, he expects to be very much upset. He really, really isn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Covalent Bond

**Author's Note:**

> Written for victorianautumn, in johnlockchallenges' Valentine's Day exchange over on tumblr. Currently un-beta'd and un-Brit-picked, all mistakes are my own. Remember kids, R&R is love!

_**The covalent bond is the sharing of a pair of valence electrons between two atoms.** _

 

Sherlock hears the heavy footsteps and panting before the tentative knock on his door. Still, he makes no move to get up from his bed and waits as there is a second, more insistent knock.

“Hello?” The voice on the other side is strained, undoubtedly from the effort of dragging a considerable amount of luggage up to the fourth floor.

Sherlock sighs and glances at the bed on the other side of the room.

“It's open” he says with just enough volume to carry his voice through the door. Idiot.

The knob turns and a rather short man with a shock of sandy hair enters the stuffy studio apartment, dragging a large duffel bag and wearing an uncertain half-smile.

“Hi! I'm John, John Watson-”

“I know.” Sherlock narrows his eyes and then flops back on his bed.

“Right. So... I'll just...” John made a vague hand gesture and spotted the mostly-empty bed on his right.

“That's all... your stuff?” John said, eyeing the cardboard boxes which made up a barricade around the spare bed.

Sherlock suddenly sprung back up, steepling his fingers under his chin and focusing once again on John.

“Why are you here? You are in your third year of medical training, you have nearly perfect grades, so surely the College has a cozy little room for you somewhere near campus.”

John stared, mouth gaping, before clearing his throat nervously.

“H-how did you know? Have we met before, 'cause I'm sure I would've remembered you.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and gestured to John's luggage.

“Your lab coat is peaking out of your bag, and you have a stethoscope keychain, obvious. You were also on the College's website, listed as the third ranking student of your year. Now, you're obviously not rich, judging by your tattered duffel bag and appalling jumper, but the College allots special funds for students like you, for accommodations and such, so I'll ask you again: what are you doing here?”

“Wow.”

“Beg pardon?”

“That... was incredible.” John's smile lit up the whole room.

“That's... not what people normally say.” Sherlock looked away for a moment, _had to_ look away from that blinding smile.

“What do they normally say?”

“Piss off.”

John's laugh was clear and merry, like summer rain. Sherlock couldn't help but join in.

“You were right, spot on actually. I do get a monthly cheque, but that money... has to go elsewhere.”

Sherlock frowned.

“Oh, of course! Someone in your family has a drinking problem, probably requires special care and treatment, and you help out the only way you can.”

John swallowed nervously.

“It was either that, or drop out altogether, but mum wouldn't have it... Anyway, why are _you_ here, if it's such a horrible place?”

Sherlock paused at the sudden topic change but decided to let it go for now.

“None of the other places would have me. I'm not very easy to be around I'm afraid, and I accidentally blew up my old dorm room...”

John laughed incredulously. “Seriously?!”

“Set the curtains on fire before that... And there was the one incident with sulphuric acid...”

John couldn't decide if the statement was meant to put him off, but for some reason he found it terribly funny.

“Do you... do things like that happen often?”

“Don't worry, my experiments rarely backfire,” Sherlock said smugly, watching John's eyes widen to comical proportions.

“I sometimes have nightmares,” John offered. At Sherlock's questioning brow, he added, “Since we're gonna be living together, I thought, you know, we should know the worst about each-other."

It was Sherlock's turn to laugh.

“Oh, if that's the worst thing about you, John Watson, I expect we'll get along just fine.”

“As long as you keep any... experiments to your side of the room, it's fine with me.”

Sherlock smiled and got up, closed the distance between him and John with two long strides, and held out his hand.

“Sherlock Holmes. Second year Chemistry. I occasionally blow things up, I play the violin at ungodly hours and I annoy people with my deductions.”

John clasped his hand firmly and smiled in return. Sherlock suddenly didn't feel so adverse to sharing his room with this man.


	2. Alveoli

_**The alveoli, little air sacs at the tips of your lungs, are built like tiny, stretchy balloons.** _

 

John came home, boots covered in snow, to find their room filled with smoke. Violently coughing, John could barely see Sherlock propped up on his bed and surrounded by ashtrays and cigarette packs. 

“What... the hell?!”

Sherlock opened the window, but made no attempt to clear the smoke or put out his cigarette. Instead, he pulled his laptop closer and typed something up, before taking another long drag.

“Is this another experiment? Because I swear to god-”

“Ash is important,” Sherlock replied, “and you're not supposed to be here anyway. You were supposed to be on holiday.”

“So were you! Dammit Sherlock, now all my things will smell like your stupid cigarettes!”

John made exaggerated hand gestures in attempt to clear the thick smoke, but it was no use.

“Happy New Year, John,” Sherlock said instead, then did a double take. “Oh, I'm sorry about your sister.”

John shook his head and sat heavily on the edge of his bed. He'd got used to Sherlock springing deductions on him, but that didn't ease the sting of it when they hit this close to home. “She had a breakdown at Christmas,” John began, “but we kept hoping she would get better. We took her to rehab yesterday, and I couldn't bear to say at home one more day and watch mum-” John choked on his words and his throat constricted painfully.

Sherlock nodded gravely, and with a final drag he stubbed out his cigarette. The room was getting chilly with the January wind blowing through the open window, but neither Sherlock nor John made any move to close it.

“Those things will kill you...” John said, matter-of-factly. “What are you even doing, exactly? Aside from delayed suicide,” he added with a bitter smile.

“I am studying various types of tobacco ash, the different colours and textures, as well as their burning speed and smoke colour.”

“I doubt you can see much in here, though,” John put the kettle on and once again scrunched up his nose as he saw Sherlock reach for his lighter again.

“Oh for- GO AWAY!!!”

John looked around in confusion, but he couldn't figure out who Sherlock was yelling at. A few moments later, the door swung open and Mrs Hudson, the landlady, came in carrying a huge cake.

“Happy Birthday, Sherlock!” She said jovially, ignoring the smoke and heading straight towards the scowling man. “I baked you your favourite, chocolate fudge!”

Sherlock rolled his eyes but returned the affectionate kiss and took the cake from her hands.

“Thank you,” he said grudgingly, “but as you can see, I'm busy.”

“Hang on,” John shook his head, “it's your birthday?”

“Even you couldn't be so dull, John,” Sherlock replied acidly, putting the cake on top of his dresser.

“Alright, I'll leave you boys alone, don't eat it all at once!” Mrs Hudson said and left with a pleased smile. John poured out tea for both of them and sipped his cup in silence for a while.

“But- how did the landlady know, and I didn't?” he asked, and Sherlock predictably rolled his eyes. “I'm your roommate!”

“She knows, because it's in the file she keeps of all students lodged here. She cares, because I helped her out last summer with her husband's case. You can have the cake if you want, by the way. I don't eat when I'm busy and it will probably spoil by the time I'm finished.”

Sherlock sat back on his bed and carefully lit another cigarette.

“Sugar's good for the brain, you know,” John commented idly. “How many more of those can you smoke before you collapse or something?”

“Don't be silly, John,” Sherlock chided and put the cigarette in a strange contraption sitting on his desk. John watched in fascination as the strange mechanism came to life at Sherlock's gentle prodding and the cigarette was now smoked by a sort of air pump.

“I'm going out, there's too much smoke in here,” John declared, setting his cup down with a loud clatter.

“If you plan on getting me a present, don't,” Sherlock said sternly from behind his laptop screen. John stopped dead in his tracks, one arm caught in his jacket and the other fumbling with his scarf.

“How did you- Never mind. If you'd have told me-”

“I didn't think it relevant. You don't have to spend your money on some sentimental piece of rubbish that will end up in the back of a drawer, John.”

John shook his head and headed to his duffel bag instead, and pulled out a neat package wrapped in plain brown paper. He threw it at Sherlock and crossed his arms, waiting. Sherlock looked up, annoyed at the interruption, and carefully picked up the small package.

“John...”

“Just open it, you git.”

Sherlock nodded, speechless, and tore at the paper to reveal a strip of deep blue cashmere. He took the scarf out and held it, carefully cataloging the texture of the fiber. He finally looked up at John, who was smiling broadly, eyes crinkling at the corners.

“Merry Christmas, you idiot.”


	3. Single Replacement Reaction

_**In a single replacement reaction, a single uncombined element replaces another in a compound.** _

 

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock wrapped himself tighter in his dressing gown and curled up on his bed, facing the wall.

“Sherlock, are you OK?”

John seemed genuinely concerned, but Sherlock couldn't be bothered. So what, if John got himself worked up over things that didn't concern him? He didn't care about John's stupid fussing. He won't make the mistake of caring for anyone, ever again.

“ _Oh my god, you really thought I gave a shit?!” Victor had laughed hysterically as Sherlock lay naked on his bed. “You really don't have a clue, do you?”_

“ _I knew about you and that Cavendish girl, I'm not an idiot!” Sherlock's cheeks flamed red despite himself. He hated his pale complexion just then._

“ _You know nothing, Sherlock! You think I like being with a freak who knows what I had for lunch from the way I tie my shoelaces? You think I like being with a freak and having all my friends laugh at me behind my back? You think ANYONE would EVER fuck you if they had a better choice?”_

“I made tea,” John tried, placing the cup on Sherlock's bedside table. Sherlock didn't stir, so John left it there and went to his desk to read up on his Histology notes.

“ _I know you, Victor! You're not like the rest of them, you're not an idiot, why can't you just-”_

“ _Why can't I what, Sherlock?” Victor was suddenly much too close for Sherlock's comfort. “You want to stay here and fuck and get high and to hell with the rest? Is that what you want?”_

“ _Yes! That's exactly what I want!” Sherlock got up and started pacing, ignoring the fact that he was still naked. “I want you to stop trying so hard to be like everyone else! Do you think that getting a girlfriend will fool anyone? You're not even into girls, Victor!”_

“ _Hey, just because we fuck doesn't make me gay, alright?!” Victor's hands balled into fists and Sherlock took a step back. “That's right, this doesn't mean a fucking thing, you hear me!”_

“ _Oh, is that so?” Sherlock crossed his arms defiantly. “Does she know, then? If it's so irrelevant, why hide it from her? Why hide the fact that you like to get on your knees and suck my dick, and you like to take it up the arse so hard you can barely walk in the morning-”_

“Sherlock, please. If you're sick or anything, maybe I could help. I am a doctor, well, almost...” John carefully sat on the edge of Sherlock's bed, but didn't dare check for a fever.

“You won't be a doctor for another three years, John,” grumbled Sherlock from under his cover.

John smiled, if Sherlock will speak to him only to correct him, he couldn't be that sick.

“There's toast, if you want. And I've got pictures from my dissection today...”

Sherlock groaned and shifted. John knew the pictures of dissections always put Sherlock in a good mood. He got up, to allow Sherlock to sit up properly, and gasped at the sight of Sherlock's face. His right eye was swollen shut, and his lower lip was split.

“Oh my god, Sherlock, what happened?”

As John leaned in to inspect his eye more closely, Sherlock sighed and patiently endured John's careful prodding.

“Hold on, I'll get you some ice for that. Jesus, who did you piss off this time?”

Sherlock closed his eyes and rested his head against the headboard. This was a conversation he was most definitely not ready to have, least of all with John. When the latter returned with a pack of ice and a frown, Sherlock knew it was inevitable.

“So?” John sat next to him on Sherlock's bed, making sure the ice pack was secure.

“Victor and I broke up.”

John blinked owlishly.

“Victor?”

“Victor Trevor, yes. Though technically, we were never actually together.”

There was a long pause in which Sherlock welcomed the cool sensation on his bruised eye and John tried to deal with several realisations at once.

“He and I had... an arrangement. He was more tolerable than most people and sufficiently frustrated in order to... experiment. I was bored.” Sherlock tasted the almost-lie on his tongue and decided this was to be, from now on, the truth about the 'Victor experiment'.

“Bullshit,” John said simply.

“Beg pardon?”

“That's bullshit. You obviously cared about him,” John went on. “Enough to not tell me about him, at least. Why didn't you?”

Sherlock swallowed. “Considering the company you usually keep, I thought it best not to... 

“Are you crazy? Do you think I give a fuck about you being gay or whatever, just because Bill and Terry like to make stupid jokes?” John shook his head and put a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. He could feel the younger man tense under his touch, so he slowly pulled his hand back, but his tone was firm when he said, “Sherlock, I don't care. Seriously, it's fine, it's all fine. And anyway, it would be a bit hypocritical of me, you know, considering...”

Sherlock looked up at him with one eye. “I didn't think you'd realised that about yourself yet.”

“Uh... I meant my sister, Sherlock. She's a lesbian, remember?” John tilted his head in confusion.

“Oh... Right...” Sherlock quickly looked away.

“Why, what did you mean?”

“Nothing, forget it,” Sherlock said and headed for the bathroom without another word.


	4. Philtrum

**_**The indentation in the middle of the area between the nose and the upper lip has a name.** _ ** _**It is called the philtrum. Scientists have yet to figure out what purpose this indentation serves, though the ancient Greeks thought it to be one of the most erogenous places on the body.** _

 

For the past two weeks, John couldn't stop thinking about Sherlock. Ever since the Victor incident, John has been trying and failing to act normal around his roommate. Initially, it had been hard for John to piece together the information he got out of their little talk: Sherlock was gay; Sherlock broke up with his sort-of-boyfriend, or, he suspected, the other way around; Sherlock had chosen to keep both of these things from him; and Sherlock, it would seem, thought that HE was gay. The whole thing made him feel so many different emotions (confusion, enlightenment, anger, disappointment, confusionconfusionconfusion) that he could barely recall that afternoon, so busy was he, sorting though all that. But later, as he lay wide awake in his bed at 4 am, he had an epiphany. 

From that day on, John couldn't stop thinking about Sherlock. But he wasn't just thinking, he was observing. Sherlock would be proud, except his observations seemed to involuntarily focus on one piece of Sherlock's anatomy at a time. First, it was his hands, those long, graceful fingers deftly playing his instrument, brushing against his own, blunt, shorter ones as John handed him a cup of tea. Then came his neck, the long column of flesh (or marble, he wasn't sure), and the scattered little moles on the left side, just above his collar. Next, his cheekbones, the ridiculous cheekbones that stood out from his alien-looking face, haughty and mysterious. Then, one glorious morning, his arse, tight and round, like ripe fruit, as Sherlock bent over to look for his lockpick set.

There were other things, of course, like his eyes, his magnificent eyes, now a clear green, now a deep blue, now steel silver, but such things were harder to observe without being noticed. Sherlock, of course, noticed all the same.

“You're staring again, John. I hate it when you stare.”

“S-sorry Sherlock,” John replied, pretending to read about synaptic polarization. Sherlock was wearing his blue dressing gown today, and was sat at his desk, drawing some complex molecules that John only vaguely remembered from his Chemistry classes. The February sun was shining brilliantly through the open window and the cool breeze was gently ruffling Sherlock's hair. It was unusually hot for this time of year, the skies were blue, like Sherlock's dressing gown-

“John...”

“Sorry again, it's just this damn chapter is so boring that I get distracted.”

John was a terrible liar, and he knew it. He loved Neurology.

Sherlock turned around in his chair to face him. With the sun behind him, he looked like an angel with a halo. Shit.

“John, what's going on? You're acting very strange lately. At first I thought it was just you being over-protective, but my eye is fine now, as you can see, so there's no need for that. Unless this is about the... other thing.” Sherlock swallowed and pretended to studiously observe the fibers in their carpet.

“It sort of is, actually.”

John realised he'd actually said that out loud when Sherlock's head raised suddenly and his mouth fell open in a perfect heart shape. John couldn't look away, wouldn't look away from the dusty pink lips, and wow, when had he become such a girl? He didn't care, really, because Sherlock's tongue peaked out to wet his lips and he was gone.

“You were right,” John began, clearing his throat and still addressing Sherlock's lips. “You were right about me not knowing, but once I looked, I saw. No, I observed! You wouldn't tell me about you being gay, or about Victor, not because you thought I would judge you. Or that wasn't the only reason. The truth is, Sherlock, that all this time, ever since I came to live here, you've been staring at me all the time. _Observing_ , you say, _deducing_ , but now, now that I've done nothing but stare and observe for the past two weeks, _now I know_.”

Sherlock, who had stood still as a statue during his little speech, startled as John got up and strode toward him, a sly smile on his face. He realised, belatedly, that, should he try to get up, his legs would not cooperate. Just like that, John was inches away from his face, stroking the side of his neck as he leaned in to whisper, “I know.”

Slowly, deliberately, John lowered his lips to Sherlock's, giving him plenty of time to refuse. But refusing was the farthest thing from Sherlock's mind as he felt John kiss him, just a simple press of lips, but so tender and sweet that he felt his chest constricting. When John probed with his tongue, Sherlock moaned, a deep sound reverberating through their ribcages, which had somehow got very very close.

Without thinking, Sherlock cupped John's face in both hands and adjusted the angle, so he could deepen the kiss. It was John's turn to moan, and he temporarily lost his balance, propping his hand on Sherlock's knee. Impatient, Sherlock pulled John on his lap and felt the older man's fingers gently tugging at his hair.

“John,” Sherlock murmured, like a prayer, but he couldn't tell what he was praying for. John seemed to know regardless, as he pressed himself flush with Sherlock and sucked eagerly at his pulse point. Sherlock very nearly screamed.

“John...” Sherlock said more insistently, the warning tone making John pause.

John pulled back a little, sitting on Sherlock's thighs, and held Sherlock's gaze. They were both panting and their lips were swollen. Very deliberately, John parted Sherlock's dressing gown and popped the topmost button of his shirt open. He could see Sherlock's pupils dilate even further, and he bent over to taste the newly-exposed skin.

“Jooohn...” The breathy sounds coming from Sherlock were clearly starting to affect John, and he started grinding in Sherlock's lap, only to find an answering hardness in the other man's pants.

“Bed, now.”


	5. Oxytocin

_**Oxytocin is released at orgasm for human males, and promotes both emotional bonding and sexual pleasure.** _

 

They ended up on Sherlock's bed, a tangle of limbs and clothes. John found he couldn't stop kissing Sherlock, couldn't get enough of the delicious sounds he was making, even as his own jeans became decidedly uncomfortable. Somehow, Sherlock managed to rearrange them, accidentally knocking over a lamp, so that he was on top of John, hands just above his shoulders and cocks perfectly aligned. They both moaned loudly at the contact, and Sherlock proceeded to unbutton John's shirt. 

He let out a frustrated groan as he popped the first few buttons only to reveal another layer of cotton underneath. Without much consideration for John's wardrobe, Sherlock tore at his shirt and roughly pushed his vest up, licking a wet stripe from John's navel up to his sternum. John's hands came up to his sides and fumbled helplessly with Sherlock's shirt, as the younger man latched onto a nipple.

“Off, off!” John urged impatiently, and Sherlock paused his ministrations to oblige. They both stripped their tops with surprising efficiency, and Sherlock returned to his earlier task, slowly running his hands down John's ribs. John pulled him up for another kiss, hungry to taste and touch every inch of this impossible man. Sherlock's hand sneaked lower and popped John's jeans open.

John let out a sigh of relief and arched into Sherlock's touch. Sherlock took this as encouragement and slipped his tongue between the other's parted lips, carefully grasping his erection. John's surprised grunt dissolved into a moan as Sherlock's hand began to move with deft strokes. When he added a twist at the end of his upstroke, John bucked and dug his nails into Sherlock's back.

Sherlock paused to tug at John's jeans and pants, and the other man dutifully lifted his hips to allow Sherlock to undress him completely. As Sherlock grabbed the base of his cock and licked his lips, John felt the piercing eyes stare straight into his soul. Without breaking eye contact, Sherlock lowered gracefully and licked a wide stripe from the base of his cock to the tip, circling his head before taking it into his mouth.

“Sherlock!” John definitely did scream then, head falling back and hitting the headboard. He could feel Sherlock's smug smile as he took him deeper, and John's hands instinctively fisted into Sherlock's dark curls. He loosened his grip at Sherlock's warning growl, stroking his scalp apologetically. He could already feel the heat in his lower abdomen, the tightening of his balls, and he knew that he had to stop or things would be over far too quickly.

As if reading his mind, Sherlock pulled away with a wet sound, and John noticed that his trousers and pants were pushed halfway down his thighs and his spare hand was wrapped around his erection. John stared, mouth open, at the hard, slightly curved member, and had the strange impulse to lick the bead of precome gathered at the slit.

Sherlock was looking at him patiently, a wry smile tugging at his wet lips.

“I... I've never done this before, you know, with a bloke,” confessed John, and he suddenly realised he was nervous.

“Do you want to?” asked Sherlock, his hand still lightly stroking himself.

“Oh, god, yes.” John sat up and Sherlock reversed their positions, discarding the rest of his clothing in the process.

John tentatively grabbed Sherlock's cock, trying to remember every blowjob he'd ever got, but his brain seemed to freeze. Sherlock's hand gently stroked his hair and John parted his lips, licking the clear fluid from the slit. Sherlock gasped and John felt a wave of adrenalin go through his system. Boldly, he wrapped his lips around the head and stroked the frenulum with his tongue. Sherlock shuddered, fingers twitching against John's scalp, then tugging sharply as John accidentally grazed him with his teeth.

“Sorry,” John mumbled and tried again, this time mindful of his teeth. He tried using his hand on the base to create some sort of rhythm, but when he felt Sherlock's cock hit the back of his throat, he choked and had to back off.

“John, John I need you in me,” Sherlock pleaded. John's jaw was already aching, but he was pleased to note that even after his inexpert fumbling, Sherlock's erection hadn't faltered.

“Do you have any...” John knew how this worked, in theory, and he knew it wouldn't be fun for either of them without some sort of lubrication. Sherlock fumbled under the bed for a while and finally produced a half-empty bottle of lube and a pack of condoms. He parted his legs even further and John squirted some lube on his fingers.

“Start slow, it's been a while,” Sherlock instructed, and John was glad to have the feedback. His voice was low and rough and John's neglected cock twitched at the sound of it. John circled Sherlock's entrance with his index finger before slowly pushing in. He felt the muscle give and, at Sherlock's sigh, he started moving in and out.

“Good, that's good, John...” Sherlock pushed back a little and John applied more lube. “Now twist your finger a little, try to- GAH!”

John smirked as he hit Sherlock's prostate, and did it again. He knew what he was doing, even if he'd never actually done it before. At Sherlock's insistent whine, he pushed another finger in and started to scissor them, making sure to brush against his prostate once every few strokes. By the third finger, Sherlock gave up on coaching John and became a moaning, writhing mass of pure pleasure.

“John, please, please,” he croaked, and John was only too happy to oblige. Putting on the condom proved to be a bit more difficult with his hands coated in lubricant, but he finally managed to roll it on and slick himself up. With a final nod, John carefully positioned himself at Sherlock's entrance and pushed forward in one long stroke.

Sherlock's legs pulled him closer and John let out a blissful moan. He waited a few moments for Sherlock to adjust, and then pulled back, snapping his hips forward. He hitched Sherlock's leg over his shoulder after a few tries, and found his prostate again, setting up a steady rhythm. This was somewhat familiar territory, John thought through the haze of pleasure and heat, licking into Sherlock's mouth and nibbling at his collarbone.

Sherlock could feel his own orgasm building up rapidly, John's sharp thrusts proving to be surprisingly accurate. As John tweaked one of his nipples, he sneaked a hand between them to fist at his neglected erection and clenched his muscles around John. The other man gave a surprised shout and his thrusts became more erratic as Sherlock got closer and closer to the edge.

“John, John, John,” Sherlock chanted, and with a final twist of his hand, he came, coating their stomachs in his seed.

John felt Sherlock's muscles spasming around him, and, after a few short thrusts, he cried his release.

Panting, John fell half on top of Sherlock, and neither felt too inclined to move, even as their sweat and seed were rapidly cooling in the gentle February breeze.

“You're an idiot,” said John affectionately, when he got his breath back.

“You were oblivious and I was afraid,” admitted Sherlock, in a rare burst of complete honesty.

“We're both idiots,” John conceded, tracing Sherlock's collarbone. The man was far too skinny, the doctor in him supplied. Sexy though, John's libido countered, and he mouthed lazily at Sherlock's jaw.

“What now?” Sherlock asked, the familiar fear of rejection coiling against all reason in the pit of his stomach.

“Well, I suppose we need to shower at some point,” John began, his hand stilling over Sherlock's heart. Then he added, in a more serious tone: “We already live together, I make you tea, and you grow cultures on my toothbrush. None of that has to change.”

Sherlock swallowed nervously, and placed his hand over John's.

“What if you get bored?”

“Are you kidding? You're the most interesting person I've ever met, infuriating, yes, but if I haven't blown your head off by now, I think we're good.” John smiled and kissed the nearest patch of skin.

“What if I get bored?” Sherlock turned to face John, and the older man could see all his fear and uncertainty reflected in his eyes.

“Then I'll just have to get creative,” John retorted with a mischievous grin.

Sherlock smiled, a genuine, warm smile, and kissed John slowly. That was something he definitely looked forward to.


End file.
